Page 100 of John Eyre

It was impossible to tell what was wrong with him. A broken heart? A fractured soul? He was overheated and yet odd chills racked his frame. It was the shock of it, surely. The painful sharpness of the loss of her. Of happiness, so nearly his, only to be snatched from his grasp at the final moment.

In time, he rose and stripped off his new frock coat, waistcoat, and cravat. He changed into the plain clothing he’d worn when he’d first arrived at Thornfield. The humble garb of a village schoolmaster. Like it or not, he must accept that his time in the sun was over. There would be no more thoughts of love and romance. No more possibility of marriage. Of family.

He’d have to visit the boys’ nursery soon, if only to temporarily reassure them. And after that…

Good God, what was he to do?

One thing was certain: he must leave Thornfield Hall. His love for the boys—his love for her—notwithstanding, he could no longer remain. Not after having come so close to marrying her. Not after learning that her husband still lived.

She’d lied to him from the beginning. Had led him to believe—

But no. He wouldn’t think poorly of her. Not when she’d found herself wed to such a man. A violent lunatic with a thirst for human blood.

John shuddered to think of it. Of Mr. Rochester hiding in the shadows of that small room behind the tapestry. Of the sound of his voice, beckoning and threatening by turns.

Knowledge of his presence in the house cast the events of the previous months in a new light. The sounds John had heard—the laughter, the rattle of chains, and scratch of fingers.

And worse.

Had Mr. Rochester been responsible for setting Bertha’s room alight? He must have been, for John knew now that Mr. Poole was no villain.

What else had Mr. Rochester been responsible for? How often had he escaped from his prison to wreak havoc among the household? It was a miracle that no one had been killed.

John sat back down in front of the cold hearth, letting his aching head rest against the back of his chair. He needed to think, but he was too weary in spirit to do more than accept that he must leave this place. After a long while spent staring into the empty fireplace, he closed his eyes.

And he must have drifted off, for when next he opened them, the clock on the mantel was striking two o’clock.

No one had come for him. Not Mr. Fairfax with a cup of tea or a tray for John’s luncheon. Not Bertha. She hadn’t followed after him. Hadn’t stopped at the door to enquire if he was all right.

In the space of so many hours, he’d become a secondary concern to her. Or, very probably, no concern at all. He’d been right to feel that she’d let him go. The moment she’d released his hand—a hand she’d clutched like a lifeline all the way from the church to the room on the third floor—their romance had ended. Their friendship, too, by the look of it.

Rising, he went to the door and unbolted it. He’d make himself a cup of tea and some toast, and then he’d go to the boys and offer some form of explanation. It wasn’t ideal. But what choice did he have?

He opened the door and passed through it, only to stop short. His heart leapt in his chest.

Bertha was there.

She was seated in a chair in the hall, a small leather-bound book on her lap. At the sight of him, she stood. “At last. I feared you would stay inside until nightfall.”

He swallowed hard. “What are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m waiting for you.” She surveyed him with a frown. “Why did you not remain in the room with me upstairs? Shout at me or demand some kind of explanation?”

“I’ve had my explanation. You told Mr. Taylor and Mr. Briggs about your marriage to Mr. Rochester. About his madness. And I understand.”

“Then why—” She broke off, her gaze dropping to his clothing. “I see. You’ve already made up your mind.” Her mouth trembled. “You’re leaving me.”

He wanted desperately to reach out to her. To offer her some form of reassurance. But there was nothing he could do to make this any easier for her, or for himself. “You must see that I can’t stay here. Not after what we’ve been to each other.”

“You speak in the past tense.”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t know the whole of it…” She came closer to him. “What I told those gentlemen about my husband…it wasn’t the truth.”

John’s brows snapped together. “I beg your pardon?”

“Not entirely the truth. Just a version of it. One they were most likely to believe. The real truth is here.” She held the small book out to him. “Take it.”